Testing
by Onyx Moonbeam
Summary: Dean and John put Sam through his hunting test. Painful for everyone, h/c. My first fanfic, I'd love your comments!


Testing

_For Enkidu07, thank you for the push into writing this, and the incredible beta. All mistakes are mine. Inspired by Mad Server – congrats on your own testing._

_I wish it was mine, but it's not._

"You can't show mercy, not a glance, an eye roll, or a fucking smirk, Dean…We have to make sure he'll be okay out there."

"I said I got it Dad. I won't help him." Dean turned his head away and closed his shoulders off to John, inwardly trying to kick in his resistance to his little brother's pain. Too bad he'd never build any up.

"A promise, Dean. Or you're chained up at Bobby's for the next 72 hours."

"Yes, sir." Dean made eye contact, game face on. You might not know if he was lying to you, but his family _always_ knew when he was telling the honest truth.

After a quick pause, both of Dean's eyebrows went straight up, and his upper lip hitched into that smirk, "Kinky, though…chains."

John grinned. Dean's gift - he could always break the tension.

Fuck, Dean could still remember his surprise 15th birthday party, and the three days of hell John and Bobby had put him through while Sam was off at that soccer camp he'd been so excited about. It hadn't occurred to Dean to tell Sam what had happened, but regrets started filtering in. At least then Sammy'd know what was coming.

The two men squared their shoulders and strode back into the cramped motel room.

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It started with a frigid gallon of water poured over Sam's still sleeping head. His head held down by Dean, unable to fight back, the water rushed into Sam's mouth and nose, cutting off breath. After the full gallon was empty John bent down and spoke harshly into his youngest son's ear, "Up, dressed, and outside. 50 seconds." John stormed out of the room.

Dean let up on Sam's arms and forehead and turned to follow his father. Sam reached a hand out and snagged Dean's elbow, "What the hell, Dean?"

"Hurry up soldier. 45 seconds." Square jaw set, working his best on cold eyes, Dean left the room.

Sam stumbled out of the room 44 seconds later wearing unbuttoned jeans and a t-shirt still hitched up on one side under Dean's worn denim jacket. His boots were on, untied. His long hair still wet from his wake up call, Sam rushed over to the Impala, "What's going on?"

"You might want to tie those up soldier, you've got some running to do." From the front seat Dean watched Sam's left eyebrow quirk up inquisitively at John.

"Be at the training ground on the lake in 45 minutes or 300 extra pushups."

"But that's seven miles from here."

"Well, I'd start moving." John slid into the front seat, turned the ignition and peeled off to AC/DC on the stereo. Glancing over at the movement in the seat next to him he ordered, "Don't let him see you looking back, Dean."

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The first six hours were straight cardio: running, then swimming, jumping jacks, high knees, suicides, and a rope course resembling something from John's Marine boot camp days. When it seemed like Sam couldn't possible keep going, that's when they came in swinging.

Sam instinctively ducked under his father's hook to his temple, but the uppercut into his belly took him to the ground. John knelt on his chest and went for another face punch.

Dean could literally see the moment Sam's adrenaline kicked in, as he started blocking the punches, but he was still only half-heartedly fighting back. While Sam threw himself into the grappling with basic Judo moves, he wasn't even trying to get in any good strikes.

After stabilizing John's right arm against his chest, Sam thrust his hips to the right and sent them both rolling in the dirt, wrestling for the controlling position. A dozen minutes later John was gasping for breath, squeezed into Sam's guard, held in place over his son between Sam's legs.

While John couldn't get out of the suffocating grasp, he could definitely fight back. Jabbing Sam in the stomach and ribs while his son tried to protect himself, John sneered "I'd start fighting back Soldier, or this is going to take awhile."

John pulled back to strike Sam in the chest with what Dean could see would be more than a cursory tap. Sam finally started fighting. Canting his hips and pulling John towards him, Sam blocked the punch, throwing John off balance, and brought up a swift roundhouse to his dad's jaw.

Sam released John who rolled off him, nursing his jaw.

"You need more weight, more muscle to be any good on the ground." It came out cold from Dean. The teasing tone that had always accompanied his criticism of Sam was gone. "Start pushups."

Dean counted out the first hundred, then waited until Sam has his nose pressed into the wet dirt of the abandoned campsite. Dean pressed his boot down on Sam's shoulders, "Get up."

Sam pushed up as hard as he could, pressing his knees down, trying to get on all fours. Dean held him down, grinding his boot into Sam's ribs.

Sam snaked an arm behind his own back and grasped Dean's ankle. Twisting it, Sam rolled away and sprung to his feet in a fighting position, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, fists up, one protecting his face, the other his body.

Dean went in, punches, kicks, elbows, knees, open hand strikes, moving through techniques they'd been practicing together for years. Sam countered them perfectly, but didn't throw any strikes of his own. Dean went harder, faster, catching Sam off guard, getting a good hard strike in for every ten or fifteen blocks.

"Not gonna fight back, afraid of breaking your big brother?" Dean huffed out a mocking laugh, "When the demon is in a pretty little girl are you going to be afraid to hit her? Oh, that'll get you far, Sam. And I'll bet holy water would burn her skin and she'd be scarred for life. Wouldn't want that. And it probably hurts to go through an exorcism, what if your pretty little girl's been injured? What if she dies? It would be _all your fault._ Probably better not to fight back. Just let me kick your ass."

Dean punctuated the last works with a palm heel to Sam's chin, knocking him back a few feet. Dean smirked, turned to John and said, cold as he could manage, "You thought he was ready? Pathetic." _Come on Sammy, you can do this, but I can't help…has to be all you. You can do it, you're stronger than anyone I know._

Dean turned his mocking face towards Sam just as he was charged with lanky fifteen year old. Punches, kicks, strikes were coming his way now, and they sure weren't showing mercy. Weird how Sam could trip and fall down a flight of stairs, but in a fight he never lost his rhythm or grace.

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John watched his boys fight as he unloaded the practice weapons from the duffle in the trunk. The two were almost the exact same height. Dean had been fucking pissy when Sam started gaining on him, and the kid wasn't done yet.

Sam had muscles and strength, but Dean's four years definitely gave him the upper hand. Speed might be an even match, and they both struggled to use it to their advantage. They both changed tactics; punches were blocked and countered with fast strikes. Dean tried backing off, waiting for any opening to jump in. There were attempted sweeps, tries for good throws, but the fight stayed on its feet

John could tell that Dean was holding back a little on that strength, but not much. Those weren't love taps, and hell knows, they had two and a half more days of this. Better not injure the kid too much on Day One.

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Dean and John traded off sparring with Sam through the afternoon hours into dusk. Hand to hand fighting, grappling, knife fighting, bo staff fighting, fights with one arm bound, only Sam of course. They even fought with dulled hatchets and a wrench kept in the car for changing flat tires.

While all the sharp edges had been dulled, and no strikes were meant to cause permanent injury, by the time the day ended, Sam's knuckles were worn raw and bruises had started forming at both sides of his jaw. Dean watched Sam stretch his right shoulder, and as he pulled his arm over is head, Sam's t-shirt rode up enough to show the mottled bruising forming over his abdomen as well.

_Fuck, two more days of this. _It couldn't have been this bad when Dean had gone through his hunting test. He'd made it. No permanent injuries. He'd been fine. A few sore days and he'd been up and running again. Okay, maybe it had taken the rest of the two weeks while Sam was at camp before Dean was up and about, but he hadn't been hurt like this, just tired.

John looked over at to see Dean staring at Sam's blood on his own fists. "C'mon son, let's get back to the motel." Dean and Sam both started towards the car, but John's hand shot up to press against Sam's chest and push back sharply.

John threw a ten-dollar bill at Sam, " You'll probably want something to eat before morning. Eat and sleep. Just a suggestion."

"It's three miles back to any food."

"Well, then, you'd probably want to start moving." John slid into the Impala, waited for Dean to round the car, and drove away before the door was even shut.

"Don't I get a blanket?" Sam yelled fruitlessly after the car, before sinking down to the damp dirt.

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By the time Sam had stumbled to town then back with a full belly and a bottle of water, he was too tired for his body to care about the discomforts of the sleeping arrangement. Sam rested his head on his left arm and fell sound asleep in the middle of the wet dirt of the campsite.

It had been abandoned years before, after mysterious disappearances at the lake had brought John to investigate. No one came to visit anymore, which made it the perfect training ground - lots of acreage, lots of seclusion.

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Day Two started with the same six hours of cardio. Even after Sam loosened up, he was pathetically slow. After Dean and John shared sandwiches for lunch, they started on shooting skills.

Dean stood with his holstered Colt 45 half way down an empty field. At the tree line an old fence had twenty empty bottles sitting on it. John handed Sam two five-gallon buckets of water and jammed his own colt into the back of Sam's waistband, "Arms straight out. They slacken, we do it again. Get to Dean, shoot off your ten before he's done with his and we're done for the day. Miss one, or he's done first, we'll run it again."

Dean stood, watching Sam make his way over, probably about a five-minute trip, arms straight out. He could see three minutes in when Sam's arms started to turn to liquid. Dean waited until Sam reached him and had his gun in his hand before he drew his own pistol and started shooting. Eight shots off, Sam's arms were still shaking, using two hands and looking like holding the gun up was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

They did the drill over and over, Sam never getting more than a shot or two off, half the time missing, before dusk had them calling it quits.

After another night running into town for food, then back to sleep on the cold ground, Day Three turned into an endurance test. _Don't give up Sammy, all you have to do is make it through. If you don't give up, you win. Don't give up, and for fuck's sake, don't pass out. Sticking to it is the only winning we're setting you up to do._

They fought, grappling and sparring to exhaustion. Then running. Sam swam, with Dean stroking along beside him pushing his head under the cold water whenever he came up for air. More running. Sam chanted memorized Latin exorcisms while John was attempting to choke him out. Lots of running.

It settled into dark on Day Three, and after a few hours to rest, they were up again, practicing their hand sparring techniques. As the first rays of light hit them John turned to look towards Sam and Dean. Dean, who was sending steady half blocked jabs into Sam's sides. His youngest son was a mess; blood was dried to his cheekbones and lips where punches had broken skin. His shirt was a torn rag, and underneath it mottled bruising was covering his chest. The parts that weren't bruised or battered stood out. He was so tired, half the time he was letting Dean hit him so he wouldn't have to move his arms to block.

If anything, his oldest son looked worse. He hadn't been sleeping, John knew. And though the workout wasn't nearly as intensive as Sam's, he was exhausted too. Worst of all, his eyes hadn't lost the cold, hard look they'd first gotten as he'd held Sam's head down under the cold water almost three days earlier.

What a fucked up life where this was the birthday present he'd given both of their boys. Wouldn't Mary be proud.

"We're done here. Let's get home." John spoke the words to both of them, but Dean turned towards John, raised one eyebrow in question. "Yeah, Sam too, let's go home."

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As the got back to the motel, Dean climbed out of the backseat from the driver's side and rushed around to help Sam. Sam's feet were already on the ground, but he hadn't stood up. Dean grasped Sam's biceps, pulled him up and tucked him into his side.

Dean slid one arm around Sam's back, grasping him at the ribs. At Sam's startled hitch of breath, Dean let go of his brother's side and grasped the denim jacket, which was now stained with his brother's blood.

He helped Sam inside to the tiny bathroom of their motel room. Dean stripped Sam down to his shorts and shut off the water on the ice bath John had gotten started. "Do you need anything else?"

"I'm good Dean, I've got it." Sam turned his back on Dean, and wrapping a towel around his waist, got rid of his last item of clothing. "How about some privacy?"

The damage to Sam's body was incredible. There were only a few cuts, scrapes and areas of broken skin, but the bruising was intense. Sam's chest, back, arms and face were covered. It would be weeks before he was back to normal.

Dean left the bathroom and headed back to the Impala to help John clean up the weapons and wipe the passengers side seat from the smell of sweat and blood his brother had left behind.

"How can I offer to help him?! I'm the one that hurt him." Dean leaned uncertainly against the door.

"But he lived through it, so go fix it." John left, going to his single room next door as Dean headed back into the double. As the front door closed behind him, Sam limped from the bathroom, skin still tinged blue from his ice bath, and climbed into the turned down bed.

"Thank God you were there, Dean."

"Fuck, I didn't help, Sam. You did this all on your own. I didn't help you once, I just helped hurt you."

"You were there. Even punching me and screaming at me, you were there." Sam closed his eyes and settled uncomfortably into the welcome bed. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean bent over the still form, fitting his forehead into the valley above his brother's nose. Clasping his fingers into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck, he whispered, " Sammy."

Epilogue

Two weeks and quite a few ice baths later they did their first family hunt, a werecat in the woods of Montana. As they were settling into sleep after a successful kill, Sam muttered to Dean, "That was so anticlimactic, all we had to do was shoot it from 300 yards. We didn't even leave the friggin' path."

Dean smirked, which made Sam chuckle, and Dean slid his eyes over to make contact with Sam's. Giving up on their hunter's stoicism for the night, they collapsed into body wracking laughter.


End file.
